The Princess' Hoard
by Nosferatank
Summary: There's a reason nobody wants to be assigned to serve King Ashnard's lover.


Isolde wanted a reassignment.

Not that being the personal maid to the king's lover was particularly grueling or uncomfortable work for one as experienced as she, but moreso that Lady Almedha was … strange. Not that the Lady was not handsome: her sharp exoticism was exemplified by her dark skin and bloodied eyes, fierce in a way that surpassed His Majesty. But her unaccommodating manner and snapping personality made more than a few young maids fear for their lives and limbs. Thus, Isolde had been called down from her post as Head Maid of the East Wing in order to attend to the needs of King Ashnard's fiery lover.

Isolde was experienced with her station, and twenty five years of service had rendered her with a stone-cold indifference towards the strange habits of nobles, but even she could see the inconsistencies from the established pattern the Lady had set. When Isolde, on one of her many errands to the wine cellar, encountered one of the questionably-sober castle healers, the old cleric had hooted "Oooh, the lass is with child! A toast to an heir!" before enthusiastically tipping up the remaining cheap wine and draining the bottle.

Curiosity satisfied (even with her unsavory reputation among the castle staff, the drunk old hag had the most proficient healing training in the building, her word on this could be trusted), Isolde snatched an extra wine bottle and jogged up to Lady Almedha's rooms.

Only to find the door shut and locked.

After some minutes of frantically polite knocking, the door creaked open, revealing one glowing eye. Isolde froze when the razor-edged gaze snapped to the bottles softly clinking from the trembles of her surprise, and Isolde silently proffered them as a peace offering. A clawed hand bolted out and snatched both bottles before slamming the door, leaving the maid empty handed.

Damn if the Lady Almedha wasn't terrifying in the most predatory way.

After that incident, a routine between the two women was established: Isolde would deliver the necessities, including copious quantities of alcohol and the occasional bowl of scorpions to the door, and Almedha would leave the dirtied trays and empty bottles (Isolde learned long ago that a simple glass was not enough to quench the Lady's thirst) outside the door for the servant to pick up.

This continued for three seasons, until Isolde happened upon the door cracked open, uninhibited by its guard's usual post. Cautiously entering the room (She must assure that her mistress' quarters were comfortable, after all), the maid wondered at the shambled state the rooms were in. The bed was stripped, the luxurious silk drapes and pillows missing from the mattress, the dresser was tipped on its side directly next to the door, and there were repeated scuff marks leading from the dresser to the door. What drew Isolde's gaze the most though, was the piled fabrics and cushions next to the still-flaming fireplace. Crouching over it, she delicately lifted the covering fabrics and revealed an oblong shape; black and shining like an iridescent beetle's shell.

Before Isolde could even begin to comprehend what she was seeing, she saw a flash of movement and heard a vibrating roar that shook her down to her marrow. The silhouette before her was comparatively small contrasted by the sheer presence it exhumed, taloned and looming and _furious_ , with eyes glowing and teeth bared, sighting itself directly to the maid's jugular.

It only took one flare of blue fire for Isolde to sprint like all the devils of the underworld were on her heels. Panting, Isolde slid down the wall facing the door and waited for her demise, but was only faced with the slamming door forbidding the presence of her sight. Shivering, the maid batted out the sparks smoldering on her uniform and, against her screaming instincts to _run, flee, predator!_ she listened by the door after hearing the scrapes of a shoved dresser being propped up against the entrance. Daring to even breathe, she heard a soft, lilting melody; a beautiful tune contrasted by rock-like sounds of the language it was sung in that made her throat ache comprehending it. Deciding that her curiosity was not worth her life, she left in as professional a manner as her wilting legs could take her.

Isolde decided she would request that reassignment after all.


End file.
